“Men are such PIGS!” my friend, Jenny, snorted. “If they knew what agony we had to put up with they’d give us their seats.”

Jenny was complaining about her day at work in high-heel shoes, an ordeal that only women – and possibly a few cross-dressers – can relate to. If that wasn’t bad enough, the poor woman had to endure a long trip home in a crowded bus with standing room only. Sadly, no-one offered a seat.

In the age of equality, I found this an interesting development. When I grew up – in the chivalrous sixties – it would have been unthinkable for a man to hog his seat, but times have changed. Killer heels are no longer a useful tool for winkling men out of their comfort zones, at least not on public transport. But Jenny was young and healthy, she wasn’t physically challenged and, as far as I knew, she wasn’t pregnant. Her shoe collection was the envy of her friends, but killer heels for the coal face? It didn’t make sense to me.

I wrestled with my inner female for enlightenment and an appropriate response, but she refused to co-operate. At this point, Jenny’s female friends would have rushed over with a consoling cuppa and a well padded shoulder to cry on, but I had something much better – a pair of well-loved Volleys.

Dunlop Volleys have come a long way since their introduction in the late 1930’s. The obligatory Wimbledon-whites have been replaced with a wide range of designer colours and they are now a trendy shoe with soul. They walk all over heels for comfort, they last longer between blow-outs, and the overpowering smell of rubber eventually fades. Volleys are great for sidewalk shuffles down the coffee strip and they’re even something of a fashion statement at the local yacht club. Volleys are also excellent for climbing ladders and high-pitched roofs as many tradies will attest. Of course, I couldn’t imagine Jenny romping around a high-pitched roof, but I could see her shuffling up and down the corporate corridors without the tell-tale clack-clacking of high heels.

Anyway, I was about to offer my favourite canvas clogs when I noticed her glaring. It was one of those steely-eyed looks that women do so well and I knew exactly what she was thinking: “How would he know what I’m talking about? He’s a man!” She was right of course, on both counts, and the offer was quickly shelved. It was probably just as well because a man would have been skating on perilously thin ice, the one place where Volleys have very little traction.

The gender agenda is a curly topic for most blokes and I really didn’t want to go there. Besides, the ‘P’ in pigs was ejected with some vigour and I had to stay on my trotters. Sometimes, a man just has to listen.

A few weeks later I was wandering through the local flea market. It’s a great place for affordable produce and who knows what else. As it happens, the morning foray delivered more than the usual peas and cue’s.

With a bulging bag of vegies swinging from one arm and a big box of booty wedged under the other, I stopped at one last stall on the way out. It was crammed with man-shed things, but the vendor – a large and frumpy middle-aged woman – could only be described as someone with attitude. She studied me with deep suspicion as I examined her offerings, then she spotted the Rock Shocks (telescopic bicycle forks) poking out of my booty box. “Whadda Rock Shocks?” she demanded. “It’s a sort of cattle prod” I jokingly replied. “If the old man misbehaves you can poke him in the ribs with it.” “We don’t need fancy prodders.” she declared. “We just feed ‘em up with fatty food and they die early!”

The scary thing about her response was not so much the suggestion, but the speed with which it was delivered. She didn’t need to think about punishing the old cheese for any misdemeanours, the thought of doing him in was already front-of-mind.

I studied the unsavoury woman with a sense of unease. She certainly appeared to be serious and there was no sign of a porky partner. Then some disturbing thoughts sullied my day: “Had she actually done the deed already? Could he be the poor little piggy who popped his trotters after eating too much roast beef? Was she actively engaged in a cleansing operation and emptying out the poor man’s sty? The prospect of dealing with a genuine femme-fatal was too confronting and I quickly moved on without opening my wallet. This little piggy had been to the market and it was time to wee wee wee all the way home.

She who rules the roost with an iron fist was waiting on the front deck when I returned. Her arms were folded – a sure sign of trouble. “Where have you been? Your breakfast is cold!” I proudly showed her my forks. “More stuff!” said she in a huff. “This place is beginning to look like a pig sty……!” I kicked off my canvas clogs and quickly handed over the greens in an attempt to head off another roasting. “What’s cooking?” I asked. (Thinks: “Please let it be healthy…..”). “Streaky rashers with fried bread. Oh, and when you get around to fixing the toilet you might get a chocolate frog…….” My appetite suddenly withered like a long lost carrot. “Err, I don’t feel hungry dear.” I replied sheepishly. “How about some nice fresh fruit?”

Men are uncomplicated creatures with modest life-span expectations, but most would prefer a decent romp around the paddock to a slow ride in a wooden box. As for this podgy little piggie, he just wants to stay on his trotters for a few more volleys……..

It could only happen in Britain. After buying a vintage headlamp on Ebay, I was issued with detailed instructions – from a somewhat clandestine third-party – on exactly how to retrieve it:“Drive down St Pier’s Lane, past Lingfield Notre Dame, turn right on Racecourse, past Notre Dame Junior, then, just after Eden Brook, turn right on Station Road. Continue for about a quarter of a mile until you reach a left-hand bend – it’s the one with a large copper beech. You’ll see some black iron gates on the left-hand side. If you drive past Lingfield Station you’ve gone too far. He’ll leave the gates open for you; just park in front of the house.”

Of course, it would help if British houses had numbers, but that would be a bit naff, especially in the leafy lawyer-belt of Surrey where such things are frowned upon. As it turned out, my destination didn’t need one.

The ancient iron gates were something of a local landmark and impossible to miss, even at speed on a blind corner with one eye on a cryptic mud-map. They were generously proportioned with handsome features, intense pot-belly black in colour, and exceedingly well-hung. They were also reinforced with a muscular stone gatehouse that was big enough for an average family of four, or 16 if it was located in Bradford………….

The gates were open as promised, but the crunchy gravel driveway alerted an ageing gardener to my arrival. He nodded politely as I drove past and then he went back to manicuring his bright green lawn. I continued along the sweeping driveway, past beds of scented roses and finely sculptured shrubs, to the house itself which unfolded like a pop-up picture framed by ancient yew trees. And it was big, really big.

The old colonial may be a bit rough around the edges, but he scrubs up pretty well when required and he’s definitely not rattled by nobility. A clean shirt certainly helped, but the old diesel wagon was a bit of a handicap and it was one of those occasions where a stately carriage and a fleet of prancing white chargers would have come in handy.

I parked the handicap as instructed and waited for a doorman or butler, but no-one appeared. Still, times are tough and affordable serfs are in short supply these days. The front door would have consumed the best part of a mature oak tree, but it was dwarfed by an impressive stone facade complete with a coat of arms. The cast-iron knocker was similarly proportioned and operation required some effort. The heavy metal ring delivered a satisfying and resounding knock that echoed throughout the empty courtyard. A well-dressed man soon appeared and he studied the wind-blown offering on his door step with some suspicion.“G’day” I said. “I’m here to collect the lamp.His guard fell away like a wet blanket and a generous smile took its place. “Lord Lingfield” he declared wringing my hand with considerable vigour. “Delighted to meet you; do come in.”The good Lord led me through a richly panelled hallway to an expansive kitchen with a commanding view of the beautifully sculptured gardens. “Tea?” he asked reaching for an oversized aluminium kettle that had obviously served a military campaign in its previous life. The poor man was clearly bereft of domestic staff. “Bonza.” I said. ‘’Cow juice and no sugar thanks.”

From my experience, old-school aristocrats are unreservedly hospitable and impeccably mannered. Lord Lingfield was no exception and we spent the next hour chatting about vintage cars, life in Australia, the trials of maintaining old houses, and historic sailing ships – his consuming passion. To be truthful, I usually avoid any discussion of bobbing boats because they always make me sick, but I was fascinated to learn that the good Lord was a direct descendant of Sir John Balchen – an Admiral in the British Navy and commander of the first HMS Victory in 1744; impressive lineage indeed. Unfortunately, the heavily laden warship sank in a violent storm near the Channel Islands and Sir John went down with over 1000 men. But there was an Australian connection in the form of a beautifully crafted scale model in a large glass case. It was made downunder from red cedar and it sat proudly in the centre of an appropriately sized antique dining table.

We finally got around to the Ebay lamp after a towering grandfather clock struck for the second time. When I asked where the lamp came from the Lord confessed to selling off his fleet of cars. It was originally fitted to a vintage Rolls-Royce, but there was only one left now and it rarely saw the light of day. Pity.

I wasn’t allowed to depart without being presented with a copy of Oceans Odyssey – a beautifully illustrated book detailing deep-sea shipwrecks with a section dedicated to HMS Victory. If one good turn deserves another that was surely worth a dinkum Aussie calendar. Fortunately, the old colonial always carries a selection in his baggage and a glossy example showcasing Aboriginal art was forwarded the very next day. I expected nothing more, but when I returned to Brisbane two months later I received an official envelope from the House of Lords containing a beautifully scripted thank-you card from the good Lord himself.

“Dear David. How very kind of you to send a calendar which is on the wall in my office! Warm regards, Bob”

Britain is well stocked with eccentrics. You can see them every weekend scurrying around on penny farthings, racing through sleepy villages in vintage rag-top cars, or charging up and down abandoned branch lines in billowing steam trains. The obsession with old machinery is hardly surprising – Britain was the epicentre of the industrial revolution after all – but an annual muster of heavy metal can only be described as obsession on steroids.

The Great Dorset Steam Fair is the biggest event of its kind in the world attracting more than 200,000 people every year. The event runs for five action-packed days and it’s one of the few places where heavy metal can shake rattle and roll in a smoke filled environment without fear of prosecution. But the steam engines on offer are not the familiar railway locos of childhood dreams and murder mysteries. These iron-age monsters are free to roam the public highways and they are a sight to behold as they thunder down the narrow country lanes around the sleepy little town of Blandford – the steamy epicentre for five days.

Free-range steamers come in a variety of different shapes and sizes. There are road rollers, tractors, trucks, ploughs, and even cars; in fact, just about everything that gets a heavy metal nut all hot and steamy. And for those who can’t live without a loco, there’s usually a chuffing great 120-tonne railway engine thrown in for good measure. But it will probably be strapped to the mother of all trailers and dragged around the 300-hectacre site by a team of ancient tractors – all steam powered of course.

More than 500 live steam engines gathered for the annual muster in 2013. Machines from as far afield as Patagonia, South Africa and New Zealand converged to kick up a storm of smoke and dust. The event set a new world record for rollers with no less than 102 in a thundering convoy that surely rattled the Richter scales of Dorset. It would have been 103 if Lord Kitchener – a late-Victorian steam roller – hadn’t crashed into an historic 16th century pub a few weeks earlier. The unfortunate engine broke in two and the ancient pub walls suffered a serious blow. It’s not the sort of thing that happens every day, even in Britain, but local beer sales soared and the patrons enjoyed a barrel of laughs. (Thinks: Did they sing Roll Out the barrel on the day……?).

The wandering colonial missed that little morsel of excitement, but he wasn’t going to miss out on any fun at the fair. In fact, he had a steaming hot date with an old boiler from downunder.

Engine number 12063 was built in 1909 at the Fowler engineering works in Leeds. The general purpose tractor was shipped to Young in New South Wales where it was used to haul and cut hardwood logs. Like so many steam engines, it was abandoned and left to rust in an open paddock soon after World-War Two. The story may have ended there but for a chance encounter in the isolated outpost. After being spotted by a British steam enthusiast in 2004, it was shipped back to Blighty (Brits call this “repatriation”) where it ended up in the hands of Richard Vincent, a self-confessed steam nut from rural Somerset.

Richard is a no-nonsense character with a well-oiled boiler suit, a bit like the sort of bloke you’d find in an average Aussie suburb, although his Antipodean counterpart would probably be messing with big Macks (trucks, not burgers). Richard’s passion for steam eventually led to a full-time business dedicated to restoring ancient engines. Long-lost skills and antique tools were employed for the challenging work, but his hands-on approach ensures a steady flow of heavy metal for the workshop regardless of the economy.

It’s probably fair to say the old Young-Fowler is no show pony. You won’t find any polished brass or precious paint to care for, but it’s a well-fettled engine and more than willing to work. Of course, work is no longer a four-letter word for ancient steam engines these days. Most only get fired up for fun and they rarely leave their cosy sheds in winter.

So, what’s it like to drive a thumping great thug of a steam tractor? I have to say it was one of the most exhilarating driving experiences of my life, but to claim I was actually in charge of twelve-tonnes of heavy metal would be stretching the truth. These ancient machines require a considerable degree of expertise and at least two hours of preparation before they can even turn a wheel. Once mobile they require team work; there’s just too much going on for one person. My job was to keep the slow-motion projectile pointing in the right direction and avoid any collateral damage along the way. Fortunately, I had some help from Paul Taylor, a serious steam enthusiast from New Zealand.

The old Fowler already had a rip-roaring fire in the belly and a full head of steam by the time I arrived. The imposing mass of heavy metal rocked gently to a reassuring beat from deep within, and the huge flywheel turned with the effortless ease of an ancient steeple clock. Sizzling tendrils of steam caressed the well-patinated boiler and droplets of boiling water danced across the greasy pushrods as they plunged in and out of the well-honed cylinders with hypnotic regularity. The machine had a life of its own and I could almost hear it beckoning: “its play time, I’m ready………”

I responded by clambering up the hissing monster with a mix of iron-awe and trepidation which, as it turned out, was well founded. Before I had chance to settle in the beast kicked into action with a savage jerk and a snort of steam. Seconds later, we were trundling down a steep grassy hill at full chat in a cloud of smoke and dust.

Of course, speed is a relative term in steam circles. The actual road speed may be low compared to modern vehicles, but the mechanical noise and action were extreme and exhilarating. I stood over the exposed rods and pistons as they pounded in and out with the urgency of a thrashing machine in the face of a storm. I felt like a conductor on a pedestal in front of a busy orchestra, but I had no control over the discordant mass of clanking of metal. That was Paul’s job and it was all music to his ears. Besides, I was focused on wrestling the heavy iron steering wheel which needed a significant numbers of turns to generate a surprisingly modest response at the front end.

I think I passed the test. With Paul’s guidance we managed to shake, rattle and roll around the crowded arena without incident, and I even managed to reverse park without spoiling anyone’s day. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for my expensive new shirt. It was covered in fine Dorset dust and spattered with polka-dots of thick black oil. Paul looked at me with a wry smile and I suddenly understood why well-oiled boiler suits are so popular in steam circles.

Did the old flue-sniffer have fun? You bet. I’ve already booked a dirty weekend for next year and I can’t wait to kick up another storm in the hills of Dorset. Now where did I put that boiler suit……..?

Culinary horrors abound in many third-world destinations, but wayside restaurants added a whole new dimension to food on the run in rural Sumatra.

Most restaurants were little more than rudimentary shacks made from timber off-cuts and rusty iron; sanitary standards were low, the amenities were challenging, and their menus were frightening.

Offerings were often dished up on grubby glass saucers that resembled putrid Petri dishes and the contents invariably looked like laboratory specimens in formaldehyde. Fish heads in chilli sauce, chillies in jungle juice, and glutinous boiled rice were standard fare. The others are difficult to describe, but Slugs-In-Slime made more than one appearance and Crunchy Crickets were identified after close forensic examination. Wildlife experts may have had a field day, but for us consumption was like playing Russian Roulette with oral bullets.

A fish head appeared with a topping of raisins at one ramshackle shack, or at least we thought they were raisins until several flew away when confronted with a fork!

Fly Surprise was bad enough, but Chillies in Chilli Sauce burned at both ends. For safety, we stuck to sticky boiled rice with bean shoots, but it was soaked in blood-red sump oil. With practice, we discovered it could be delivered down the gullet by simultaneously pinching the nose and vowing to be strong over the pit-latrines later that day.

My companion was mercifully spared an ordeal at the pits when his laboratory specimen made a rapid return immediately after consumption. The glutinous rice was regurgitated in a spectacular spray for all to see, including a gang of hungry chickens that paraded around the tables like clucking clockwork toys. The ravenous fowls suddenly turned into a pack of pecking sharks as they eagerly devoured Roy’s Regurgitated Rice, much to the amusement of our fellow diners.

One memorable shack boasted Calamari on a well-weathered menu. It looked promising until a diminutive old lady appeared with a beaming broken-tooth smile and a pair of gleaming white squid draped over matching white plates. We assumed the ghostly cadavers were on their way to a slops bin, but she suddenly turned and headed for our table. The plates arrived with a resounding thump and oily liquid spilled onto the cheap plastic tablecloth.

We studied the terrifying creatures with the trepidation they deserved. The oil looked remarkably like embalming fluid and we couldn’t decide if we should eat the wretched things or conduct a post-mortem. Their lifeless eyes stared with glazed resignation and our appetites died too.

As soon as the woman disappeared, I grabbed my dinner by the tentacles and hurled it into a muddy pond which was conveniently placed nearby. The lifeless beast became animated as it hit the water, but its last waltz eventually terminated in a belly-flop and it disappeared into the murky depths to confront its freshwater cousins below. The identical twin was dispatched in a similar fashion and it too danced a ghostly jig along the surface before plunging out of sight.

After returning to the west and relative gastronomic safety, we vowed never to complain about fried freeway food again………..